


Memory

by fawatson



Category: Frontier Wolf - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Backstory, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 22:18:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1664534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cunorix remembers life with his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Isis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/gifts).



> **Prompt:** I would particularly like something about Cunorix's relationship with his brother Connla, or about his assuming the leadership of his tribe. I would also not be averse to something involving Alexios - as you probably know, I ship them, but I'm fine with unrequited love (which would in my view be more on Alexios' part, considering that Cunorix is married) or just very very very close friendship. Please don't erase Shula, but also don't erase his close relationship with Alexios. I would rather not see Alexios/Hilarion or Cunorix/Connla in this. 
> 
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>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters and make no profit by them.
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>  
> 
>  **Author’s Notes:** In the novel we are never told the exact age difference between Cunorix and Connla. On first meeting, Alexios estimates Connla is “a year or so younger.” I have chosen to interpret the age difference as three years. We are told that Connla is taller than his older brother; and often people misinterpret size to think a tall person is older than he is in reality. Children rarely remember events from age two; but can have some clear memories from age three, though normally only remember ‘big’ events, involving very strong emotions such as fear or joy.
> 
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>  **Permissions:** I give permission for people to use this in re-mix, etc; provided they attribute me as author, and inform me about it.

_His earliest memory was of being frightened._

That was his _mother_ screaming. She had been screaming for _ages._ Cunorix hid his head in the skirts of old Grainne who’d been minding him all day. At three, he was allowed to do this (and felt no shame in it).

She’d come to him that morning; but unlike other days when she just helped his mother, today as soon as he was dressed, Grainne had taken him off by herself. They hadn’t even waited to eat, but took apples and bannock with them to munch on the way. Together they had ventured to a certain field (always previously off-limits), where he had watched the young men practicing riding tricks. His father had dismounted as soon as he saw them, handed his pony to one of the others, and come swiftly to their side. Father had swung Cunorix up onto his shoulders, so he could get an even better view, while he conferred in whispers with Grainne. “Not yet,” was all he’d been able to hear but he had not really been interested in grown-up talk. Cunorix had giggled with glee as his father upended him, then threw him up in the air, before catching him and letting him down. Then Father had gone back to his horse; and Grainne had taken him off to help find the quail’s nests in the meadow by the stream (though she wouldn’t let him _touch_ the eggs, and told him off when he tried, saying his hands were too clumsy). 

By the cook-fire, getting cheese and more bannock at midday, he’d heard moaning. Escaping Grainne’s watchful eye, Cunorix had made a beeline for his mother. The hangings to her sleeping area were closed for privacy in the middle of the day, something he’d never known before; but he ducked through and found her crouching on the floor and panting; with her, Dana, who was the tribe’s wise woman. He’d escaped the grab she’d made for him, and flung himself down beside his mother, throwing his arms round her neck, and pressing in as close as he could get. Briefly she had turned her head, and smiled weakly. Her face was flushed; her normally bright red-gold hair darkened with sweat to a muddy brown, tendrils sticking to her forehead. She had not spoken before Grainne caught up to him and whisked him away. 

That glimpse had turned the day of new experiences into a day of fear. Cunorix had not seen her since; but he had refused all Grainne’s enticements to go outside, stubbornly determined to remain as close as he could. He’d not been able to escape her watchful eye again, no matter how he tried. He’d not been able to escape the noises his mother made, which rose from groans to screams as the afternoon wore on, and which came without respite as time progressed, to be heard in every corner of the hall. He’d not been able to escape his deepening fear, which, as sun moved from one side of the bothy to another, prevented him from giving any attention to the games and tasks Grainne tried to distract him with. As the screams reached a crescendo he shivered, and hid his head in Grainne’s lap. Even the familiarity of her soft murmurs and the way she stroked his head with her gentle, wrinkled hand could not comfort. 

In the end his father came and picked him up, and carried him, kicking and shouting, outside and down to the gate where he bade him stay in that stern voice that brooked no disobedience. Father laid his old hunting spear on the ground before Cunorix and handed him a small whetstone, showing how to rub it gently against the metal spear head to smooth out nicks. Father squatted, sharpening his sword silently beside Cunorix. After what seemed like forever, Grainne came out from the bothy; as she walked the path toward them it seemed as though the very air brought her message to the rest of the clan, who drew near in a loose circle, bearing witness. Father stood as she approached and handed him the squalling baby, wrapped in soft doe-skin. He laughed and held his second son up for all to see, then bent to his bewildered first son at his side, and unwrapped the newborn child. 

“See, Cunorix, a little brother for you.” 

Wide-eyed, Cunorix looked at the red, wrinkled baby, still bloody, eyes scrunched and tiny fists clenched with the shock of being born. 

“And Sorcha?” Cunorix heard his father ask. There was a note in the voice that brought Cunorix to high alert. 

“There is a second babe, caught the wrong way, unable to be born.” Tears streaked Grainne’s face. “She fades fast, Ferradach. Best come now.” 

But by the time they arrived in the birthing room it was too late. His mother lay flat on her back, dank and tangled hair pushed back from her face, spread on the pillow where she rested. The cover she had woven for the bed had been pulled over her body, hiding the details; but the outline of her figure looked somehow misshapen, as if in death she was no longer a woman. Cunorix was used to her room smelling of flowers – different ones depending on the time of year, and lavender in winter. Now the smell of blood hung heavy in the air. As his father stepped closer to the bed, the knife sheathe at his waist caught the cover, lifting its corner. Ferradach did not notice; but Cunorix, hanging back slightly, saw red-drenched cloths beneath. His mother’s face was no longer flushed with exertion, but gaunt with deep black circles of exhaustion under her closed eyes. It was not her face; it was not his mother. 

Cunorix backed away, coming up against Grainne’s legs, leaned into them for comfort. She led him away to the main hall and sat on a cushion with him crouched at her legs, while she rocked the baby. Presently she showed him the swaddled bundle again, and encouraged him to hold the infant, whilst she cuddled Cunorix, crooned, and rocked them both. The baby was sleeping now. Bewildered and unhappy, Cunorix looked at the bundle in his arms. He wanted his mother.

* * * * * * *

_He remembered exasperation._

Connla had rifled through his chest again. They had been sharing sleeping quarters for several months by now, and Cunorix had told him before to stay out of his things; but he had done it anyway. Irritated, Cunorix pulled on his tunic, leggings and boots, and ran outside, intent on hunting down the little nuisance and teaching him a lesson once and for all. He did not have to look far; on the stoop by the gate sat his brother, small carved wooden pony in one hand and wolf in the other. He was making gleeful neighing sounds as the pony reared and stomped on the wolf. Cunorix opened his mouth to yell at his brother; but Connla pre-empted him. Looking up, he spotted Cunorix and bounced up joyfully, holding out two new carvings to show.

“See! See! Finnan made them!” He handed over a very lifelike carved boar and an eagle, before tugging Cunorix down to the ground to play, handing back the horse and wolf with the excited instruction, “your horse can kill my boar, and we can both fly the eagle!” 

From the lofty heights of eight, Cunorix knew this to be a baby game but, as always, Connla’s excitement was very appealing. Regardless, however, the game needed to bear _some_ resemblance to reality. “Horses don’t kill boar,” corrected Cunorix. “They’re frightened of them, _and_ of wolves. They run away.”

“Well you wouldn’t, so your horse wouldn’t. _He’d_ be brave and fight back!”

Cunorix was no more immune to flattery than any other older brother. As the sun shone bright overhead, the two ‘hunted’ through hills marked by pebbles and leaves, finally cornering the wolf in a cave made from twigs. The problem came when, conscious it must be nearing time for practice, Cunorix wanted to put his animals safely away. 

“You’ve got your own to play with now,” he reminded Connla, as the younger boy stubbornly held on. “These are _mine._ ”

“That’s just mean,” declared Connla. "You’re not going to be using them. Why can’t I?”

Inevitably the disagreement degenerated into a tussle over the pony, during the course of which his tail snapped. Cunorix yelled and Connla, his face showing he fully appreciated the enormity of what had happened, cried. Old Grainne stepped in to separate the two boys and arbitrate. Connla was fully contrite (and not just because he was made to give Cunorix his boar in compensation). But Cunorix was left with a broken horse, which had been very fine (and better loved than any old boar). _And_ he’d been told off for losing his temper, which wasn’t his fault as it would never have happened if Connla hadn’t gone through his things to begin with. That protest just led to another lecture about how he needed to share; and besides, Connla was younger than him and didn’t understand. 

All in all, Cunorix felt quite hard done by as he went off with other boys his age to learn knife work with Finnan. They started, as always, with Finnan checking the condition of their dirks. A few scathing words about a spot of rust made one boy hang his head in shame; but Cunorix’s blade had a nice sharp edge. A stump at the edge of the copse was chosen for target practice (he wasn’t the best at this). Then two of the warriors demonstrated some sparring moves, stopping every few seconds so Finnan could point out their holds, before the lads paired off and practiced with each other, while the three men watched and commented. A year older, Braden was also a lot taller, and threw Cunorix three times. Next came the dirk dance. Not the _proper_ dance; Cunorix had seen the men do that at the last Gathering. But some of the moves were the same; and one of the men drummed while Finnan called out what to do next. If they were good enough by Solstice he’d promised they could perform the boys’ dance for the clan at festival. But Cunorix stumbled over a loose stone and could not recover fast enough, which broke formation. No one said anything; but he felt the shame keenly when practice ended after that. 

The day really wasn’t getting any better, when, having returned to the cookfire to scrounge some food, Cunorix found himself saddled with Connla for the afternoon. Several of the boys were handed baskets and sent off to gather blackberries; there was nothing odd about that (and berry picking was normally an enjoyable task). The problem was taking Connla. They would walk far; and Cunorix knew from past experience that, no matter how energetic he might be at the beginning of the afternoon, by its end Connla would be tired and whiny and dragging his heels. He’d probably get into some kind of mischief (the last time he’d fallen into a large patch of stinging nettles; Cunorix’s hands still twitched in memory of how painful it had been getting him out). And Connla would eat _everything_ he picked, so what was the point? Cunorix knew better than to say any of that, however – just exchanged long-suffering glances with his friends as they set off. True to form, Connla ran ahead as they set off on the path by the stream; typically when they rounded a bend, they found him teetering precariously on a wobbly rock in the middle of the water. Of course, he fell in as he tried to jump back (fortunately the stream wasn’t deep at that point). 

Cunorix anticipated a trying afternoon; but in fact, after that difficult start, the day just got better and better. Connla always seemed to learn the hard way; but once he had got the point of a lesson it did stick; there were no mishaps with bumblebees this year. Intent on blackberries, Cunorix missed the clump of mushrooms growing in a damp patch under some brown leaves that had fallen from a chestnut tree; Connla didn’t. They were added to his basket (which had been empty till that point). The pinnacle of his triumph came when, slightly off where he _ought_ to be, Connla looked into a hollow log and found a nest of wildcat kittens right at the back, too far to reach. He yelled so urgently for his brother, Cunorix had thought something was wrong and came running. Hunkered down, the two watched in fascination as the little striped furry bodies crawled over each other, their leg muscles still not developed enough to carry their full weight. They looked only a couple of weeks old – certainly not old enough to go anywhere. Cunorix explained they could not take them home. 

“They’ll still be nursing,” he explained. “They’d just die without their mother. You wouldn’t want that.” 

As Connla leaned against his side, Cunorix put an arm round his brother and gave him a hug while they speculated which of the three kittens were boy and girl. They were mewing funny little squeaking noises when Cunorix spied the mother cat out the corner of his eyes. She was crouched half-hidden in the shrubbery, eyes fixed on them; her ears, flattened against her head, showed how wary she was of their intrusion. 

“Come now,” Cunorix said, “they’ll be hungry and needing to nurse and their mother won’t return while we’re here.” He coaxed Connla to leave with a promise to return in a few days time to have another look. He rather thought the mother cat would have moved her nest long before then. 

It was a group of ravenous boys who arrived back at the village, laden with blackberries and mushrooms. They demolished a quick meal of bannock, cheese and apples, before each went his separate way back to his own family. Grainne shepherded Connla and Cunorix both down to the stream to wash off some of the stickiness left by the honey they’d smeared on bannock and their faces. Father was back from checking the snares, bringing with him a fine brace of rabbits. As usual, while he ate, they told him about their day. Da said he’d heard good things about Cunorix’s knife practice, which made the boy glow with pride. 

After a bit, the boys sat quiet, listening, while various men came to report about the herds and the hunting. Connla drooped quite soon; Cunorix smiled with affectionate superiority when Connla’s head found its way into his lap. But truthfully, it was not too much longer before he too was struggling to keep his eyes open. Grainne roused both and escorted them to their corner, helping Connla undress. 

“Tell the story ‘bout Da reiving Ma away from the Dalriades,” Connla mumbled, only semi-awake. 

“In the morning,” came the soothing reply, and with a light kiss on the heads of both children, she left them to peaceful sleep. 

* * * * * * *

_He remembered joy._

In fact he ran the gamut of emotions that spring: from jealousy and anxiety to envy, anticipation and excitement; plus, as usual, a healthy dose of irritation (if not outright anger) at Connla. In the end, though, there had been joy; and it was that he chose to remember. 

One could not always count on good weather for spring festival; but when it was dry, young people tended to pair off in private places. There were always a lot of babies started at spring festival. Cunorix had plans for this one. At midday, he collected a flask of heather beer, and put a selection of foods from the feast into a willow basket, before heading toward the women. Unfortunately, Shula had other plans. Cunorix reached the women just in time to see her going off alone with Connla, heading toward the stream. 

They had always been close, which was only to be expected. Shula had been only two days old when motherless Connla joined her at her mother’s breast. Son of the chief he might have been; but until he was five he had lived with Shula’s family rather than his own. Closeness between children nursed at the same breast was only to be expected – either that or intense rivalry. But the closeness of brother and sister, not mates. Cunorix watched jealously as Shula smiled and laughed at Connla as they walked off together. It was all he could do not to follow and try to interfere. She was not the first young woman to go off alone with Connla; over the last few years he had developed quite a fast reputation. 

Cunorix never had the same luck with women. It was not just looks. It didn’t help, of course, that Connla had that bright hair that was always so noticeable, where his was darker; and Connla had inherited even features from his mother that made him handsome. But the real difference lay in Connla’s laughter and the way he found it easy to talk to people – all people, but women in particular. Cunorix knew himself the better man with horses. He wasn’t as skilful a _rider_ ; Connla could always best him at tricks. And when they chose teams for the Cattle Raid, normally it was Connla’s that won. But horses trusted Cunorix in a way they never did Connla. That quality drew the men to him though, not the women. Charm and good looks were what counted with women and Cunorix knew he had neither.

It was not as if he was entirely inexperienced. The last few years he had joined the group that took horses south to market in Corstopitum. It was not all work; like most of the men he took advantage of the freedom to visit the women’s houses without any fear of repercussions. (His father had impressed on him that as a son of the chief he must choose wisely; somehow the same admonishments had weighed lightly on his brother’s shoulders.) Earlier this year Cunorix had even been as far as Eburacum, an amazing place well to the south. He could not get used to such a huge number permanently living all together, not just coming together for a time, like the meeting of chiefs. Even with the way the Romans laid out their town, the smell had been quite overpowering. He would not want to live in a town. But to visit: that was a fine thing to do. 

There were things to buy in that market that he had never known existed. Pretty glass beads attracted his attention to one stall; they were the colour of Shula’s green eyes; but after first glance they did not hold his interest. He had intended to look for a new hunting knife. However, later that day, back at the camp after taking his ease with a woman at one bathhouse, it was a gift of delicately wrought gold drop earrings he found himself polishing, rather than a new blade for himself. He still had those earrings, in the bottom of the chest in his room. He had been waiting for the right opportunity to give them to Shula. But there never seemed to be any chance to be alone with her. 

Cunorix joined a small party of young men and women who grouped themselves around a circle of logs at one corner of the clearing. It was some distance from the elders of the tribe, allowing for youthful spirits to feel free, but within easy view, so there was no declaration of any specific interest in being a couple. Membership in this group fluctuated as the seasons changed and people paired off. Once he had been the youngest, proud that slightly older peers allowed him to join; now Cunorix was the oldest. The sun was throwing long shadows before Shula emerged from the copse with Connla, woodland flowers in her hair. Connla looked boldly across the clearing, straight into Cunorix’s eyes, and winked. He bent his head and whispered something in Shula’s ear, before kissing her cheek gently and leaving. Cunorix’s jaw tightened, and his fists clenched; but...it was spring festival. It would be a bad omen for the coming year if he caused a disagreement now. And Shula had a right to choose where her fancy lay.

At dusk a boar was trussed on a spit to roast over a fire. Games of strength and endurance were played by the young men, showing off for the entire tribe (but especially those women they had their eyes on). They were not alone; the young women danced with knives, the fire in their hearts reflected in swift staccato movements. Wrestling matches followed. Winners playing winners and losers, losers until only two remained: Cunorix faced off against his brother Connla. He grunted as Connla attacked aggressively and threw him, knocking the breath from him momentarily. But fast though Connla was, Cunorix knew himself the better fighter. Connla was apt to be hot-headed and would take foolish chances, hoping for a quick win before he tired. Cunorix circled patiently, waiting for his opening; it was not long coming. Impatient, Connla rushed him and the two men grappled; but Cunorix’s balance was centred. With a twist of one shoulder, he pushed his brother to the right, hooked his foot round one knee, and put him face down, left arm bent behind with Cunorix’s elbow pressed into the hollow of his back. He held him there a good minute longer than completely necessary before releasing. With a deep breath, finally, he stepped back and reached down his hand to help Connla up. 

The crowd shouted and a cup of mead was thrust was thrust into Cunorix’s hands as his back was slapped in hearty congratulations. He tried to find Shula, wanted to see her reaction, if she was impressed; but her figure was hidden in the torchlight and shadows. In the end he allowed himself to be pulled over to the side to sit with friends as the drinking contests began. Much later, he thought perhaps he saw her slip past the edge of the fire with his brother. When the mead was next passed round, Cunorix tipped back the flask and drank deeply. 

The moon had risen high when a friend finally helped him back to the Chief’s hall and the sleeping place he shared with Connla. He stumbled round in the dark, banging into (and through, rather than under) the hangings that separated their area from the rest of the hall. He had not trusted his coordination sufficiently to bring a torch inside. Pulling off his boots demanded more than he could muster; and he settled for pulling off his tunic before falling onto the bed. The room was spinning unpleasantly; but he was not so far gone to miss the fact another body shared the bed. 

“Connla?”

He shook his head slightly to clear it, regretting the movement the moment he did it. Had drink made him mistake the left side for right? But it was a very feminine giggle that answered, and small soft hands without calluses that reached out to pull off his boots, and loosen the ties on his leggings. Even in his sodden state he noticed the distinctive smell of Shula. Bewildered, he clutched her to him, hands checking she was real. She swatted his arms away, but continued to rid him of clothes, stripping him bare, before snuggling down under the covers, half draped over him, one leg possessively thrown across his thigh.

“Where’s Connla?” he asked. 

“What,” she laughed, “you want him over me? I would never have thought that of you.” 

“No.” Befuddled with drink he might be, and sick with longing for Shula; but he knew there was something wrong with this situation. “ _You_ want Connla.”

“No _I_ want _you_ , but...” her hands explored his groin, cupping his flaccid penis briefly, before she laughed again, “somehow I don’t think that’s going to happen tonight.” She bit his shoulder lightly in punishment. “Let that be a lesson to you not to drink so much.” 

“I...you....” Cunorix’s head reeled with confusion, even as he wrapped Shula tightly in his arms. However it had happened, she was here now and he would _not_ let her go, though he still wondered. “You went off with Connla,” he accused. “I _saw_ you.”

“You were taking too long, so we went off together to plot and plan for tonight.” Shula soothed, “Shhh... sleep now. We can settle it all in the morning.” She wrapped her arms round him and rubbed her head against his chest. 

They stayed in bed late the next day; and when, finally, they emerged from his sleeping chamber at midday, Shula wore delicate gold eardrops, while Cunorix wore his joy for all to see.

* * * * * * *

_At the last, memories bled into sorrow._

They brought his dead brother with them, the Arcani, and laid him at Cunorix’s feet as if he were some sacrifice or pledge. He would have nothing of them, knowing them traitors all, to the oath they had sworn to the Red Crests, and sternly ordered them from his hall. Vagrant curs of the Caledoni that they were, they howled a bit, but slunk off.

There was much arguing amongst the men: sober talk by the old ones, and shouting and flamboyant gesticulating by the younger men to the back of the circle, particularly the wilder ones. They should not really have been part of the discussion at all; but there was no keeping them out. And, truth to tell, young chief that he was, Cunorix had no mind to. After all they were friends, not to mention it was they who would fight – perhaps die – for this, not the old men who decided. Some had been in cahoots with Connla’s prank; even those who would not have made the decisions Connla did, were incensed. Throughout it all, Cunorix stayed silent, letting them all have their say. He trusted not the Caledones, still less the Dalriades. He _trusted_ the Red Crests, or at least, he trusted the Frontier Wolves whom he had known all his life. But it was they who had taken his brother in anger; it was Alexios, a man he had called friend, who had executed him. In the end, really, there was no other possible choice. His announcement would be less a decision and more just bowing to the inevitable. 

All summer he had heard whispers of plotting and steadfastly refused to become involved, heard them and refused to countenance them. That the Damnoni and Novantae would rise had been clear to him; he had had no doubt those would join with the tribes to the north of the old wall - possibly the Segovae as well, though that was less certain. He had known Alexios felt that icy breeze whistling round his shoulders, even without any real confirmation; undoubtedly the garrison had prepared for every eventuality, including war. Within his own clan, Cunorix had expected there to be a fierce debate about whether to stand with distant kin or stand with old friends. He had also expected, once all the talk was done, to find himself standing with the Wolf-Kind, not against them. The might of Rome was not to be sneered at. Not all had visited south of the stone wall; but he had many times. He knew they were more powerful than the Caledones and Dalriades combined. 

Though in the end, it was not just the logistics of war that kept him loyal to the old alliance. Were not many in the Frontier Wolves, when all was said and done, their younger brothers? It was said they took their full loyalty with them when they left the tribe to join the guards; but, even when not close, even when rivalry had kept brothers apart, kinship ties to nephews and nieces left behind called to them. It called in equal part to those who remained with the Votadini. Even those Wolves who were not blood: had they not all hunted together for the wolf skins each wore sewn to the finely woven wool of their great cloaks? Alexios and he had hunted; Alexios and _Connla_ had hunted. But in the end Alexios’ loyalty had gone to that pompous little man who sneered at the Lady (refusing her honour) and looked down his nose at Shadow. Cunorix looked down at the arm ring – his brother’s arm ring – that he had been turning over and over in his hands as he listened to the war council. He slipped it onto his own left arm as he stood up to close the discussion. After a brief ceremony, five runners were sent with the Cran-tara to raise the tribe. 

Around him, Cunorix could hear bustle as people prepared; but he sat vigil. Connla’s body had been washed, and laid out in a side room. Now dressed in his finest clothes, not the bloodstained hunting gear he had been brought back in, one could mistake him for sleeping. Apart from a bruised lip where he had been struck when taken, there appeared no mark on him. But Cunorix had seen the wound that killed him: one made by a professional, careful and planned, not a blow suffered in the heat of battle; one made at night. He prayed to the gods for Connla’s soul, that he might find his way to the Western Lands. He could have understood had Connla died whilst being taken; anyone who set out to reive, even in jest, knew there was the possibility of mishap. He might even have forgiven an execution, though it would undoubtedly have caused a rift impossible to heal cleanly. But to kill at night: Alexios had been friend to the tribe for long enough to know what that meant.

When their father died, it had been night. But Ferradach had lain unmoving for several hours before. Even without the bleatings of Morvidd, the oak priest, who pretended to knowledge Cunorix knew he did not really have, his sons had known Ferradach Dhu’s lingering was to plot his route to beyond the sunset, to fix in his mind the landmarks he would need to find on the way, as well as say goodbye to the sons of his heart. Cunorix had set torches at his father’s foot and head, and torches on the gate, to light his way out of the lands once his. And, while he and Connla sat unmoving before Ferradach’s body, under green branches of peace (for it lay within the boundary of the next tribe) Cunorix had sent runners with torches to the great dun in the west, so that Father could see that light in the distance and know his way. 

This time he mourned alone, before Connla’s body, but without his brother’s comforting presence. It was a cold wind that blew when one’s back was not covered by a brother. Torches were now placed at Connla’s foot and head; but he had not been killed _here_. All knew a man’s spirit lingered for three days; but Cunorix could not sense it in this place. Where was Connla’s shade, and would it wander, unable to find the way? 

Cunorix was aware of slight movement, as Shula slipped into and out of the room. She had brought food and ale. He felt no need for either; but made himself take both. All too soon he would leave his brother’s corpse to arm himself, and then set out for the fort. Having had no sleep, he would need food all the more. He shivered at the thought of what lay in wait for him at Castellum. Battle, yes; but would Connla’s spirit be there too? 

Before the darkness grew thin, he rose, and donned his best sword and war-spear, with red-dyed eagle feathers tied to it, then filled a saddle bag with bannock, cured meat, and cheese. There was no telling how long he would be gone. Softly Cunorix stroked a gentle finger down his baby son’s soft face, and kissed Shula, before he steeled himself and walked out the hall. Luath followed, whining when his master bid him stay; Shula gathered the hound close, resting her head alongside his and stroking his ears. The sky was overcast and a light wind brought with it freezing drizzle which made all shiver. Ignoring discomfort, the war party stood tall in a semi-circle while Morvidd sacrificed, calling on Lugh, Lord of Light, for success in battle. Then Finnan brought his war horse to the gate and Cunorix swung up onto the dun stallion. He paused for a moment to take one last long look round the enclosure he had called home all his life, before taking up the reins and setting forth, tears tracking down his face unnoticed.


End file.
